


being alive twice

by MistressEast



Series: After Hours at Leblanc [12]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Arguing, Body Worship, Coming In Pants, First Time, Flashback fic, Frottage, Getting Together, M/M, Making Out, Reference To Past Injury, Reunions, Riding, Scars, Sort Of, Tenderness, Topping from the Bottom, You know the drill with these two, an illegally soft ending, blood mention, bottom!Goro, canon-typical drama from all involved, slightly codependent ideation but they're figuring it out, takes place before the other parts of the series, the first time jitters are so real, top!Akira
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:08:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26670391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressEast/pseuds/MistressEast
Summary: A silent second pulses between them, creeping down Akira’s spine. He clears his throat. “Come inside.”Akechi’s brows pinch down. “I shouldn’t.”“I want you to.”“That’s why I shouldn’t.”“Akechi—” Akira raises his hand again, the urge to grab Akechi and drag him inside twitching through his fingers, but he fights it back, clenching his fist as he scans Akechi’s rigid body language. “I...I’d really like to talk to you.”
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira
Series: After Hours at Leblanc [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1714768
Comments: 25
Kudos: 459





	being alive twice

**Author's Note:**

> i started writing this before never crave the rose and it was Supposed to be posted before that one, but it took way longer than i expected. i wanted to take my time because it was important to me that this fic say everything i wanted it to say, if that makes sense. anyway, yes, this is a flashback to Goro and Akira's first time together in the After Hours verse! hopefully this clears up a little more of how things played out in this au, and obviously a lot happened between these events and the first part of this series, but this was the beginning.
> 
> i hope you enjoy!

Akira is sure he must be glowing from the inside. "Are you sure?"

Sojiro waves a dismissive hand. "I don't have time to train anyone else," he grumbles. "You're still an amateur but that's better than nothing."

A smile threatens to stretch across Akira's face but he contains it, nodding his gratitude instead. "I'll work hard."

"You better."

A high, snorting giggle permeates Akira's pleased haze and Ann drifts between them to stuff the last of the remnants of the party into the trashcan behind the bar. "Boss, you're so tsundere! Just tell him you're happy to have him back!"

Sojiro snorts, glancing away, and she laughs again, tossing her messy braid over her shoulder.

“I’m heading out,” Sojiro says, slouching past Akira. “Make sure you lock up, kid.”

“Just like old times,” Akira agrees.

A wry smile turns the corners of Sojiro’s mouth and he rewards Akira with a rough pat on the shoulder.

After Sojiro leaves, the front bell dinging, Ann watches Akira finish cleaning up. The motions are comforting. Even after more than a year away, Akira falls into the habitual routine as easily as breathing.

“It’s good luck that everyone was able to make it to your welcome back party,” Ann observes cheerfully, perched on a barstool as Akira wipes down to the counter. “We’re all so scattered these days.”

“Especially you.” Akira casts her a smiling look. “It was kind of Japan’s most popular model to make time for an old friend.”

“Well—” she preens, kicking her legs out. She hasn’t changed much since Akira saw her last, but she’s only gotten more beautiful during their separation. “I’m an adult now. Graduated and everything. I can make my own schedule. And I’ll always have time for you, Akira.”

That same glow from earlier returns, warming the cavity of Akira’s chest. He stows the cleaning supplies and comes around the counter. “Thank you.”

She hops off her stool and meets him for a fierce hug, looping her arms around his neck and squeezing tightly. Akira leans into it, savoring her familiar shape in his arms and the familiar scent of her shampoo in his nose.

“Oh, I’ve missed you,” she says breathlessly.

“I missed you too.”

“It just hasn’t been the same without you here in Leblanc.” She rocks slightly from side-to-side, tilting Akira along with her. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

Eyes burning, Akira tucks himself against her neck. “I’m glad to be home.”

Laughing wetly, she peels herself away, taking his face in both hands and pinching his cheeks. “This is where you belong, Akira. Don’t go wandering off again.”

“I won’t.” Akira submits to the quick kiss she places on the tip of his nose before she pulls back with a sigh.

“I’ve gotta get home. Early day tomorrow. But—” she points imperiously at him as she gathers her purse, “—get the attic cleaned up, because we’ll be having a sleepover soon, I swear on my life.”

Smiling, Akira follows her to the door. “Yes, ma’am.”

“It was nice seeing everyone today, but we’ve really gotta hang out properly.” She swings the door open and pauses on the threshold, tapping her chin. “I’m thinking a trip to Destinyland, then a huge sleepover with food and movies—”

As she lists everything they’re going to do, Akira feels his smile droop, a sliver of unsease worming past the content fog in his head.

She must notice something, because she breaks off and peers at him, blue eyes bleached gold in the light of Leblanc’s front lamp. “Akira? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, trying to shake it off.

“You _did_ enjoy seeing everyone today, right?”

“Of course I did,” he assures her. “I was miserable without you guys.”

“Then what’s—” her face clears suddenly with apparent understanding. “Oh.”

“What?”

“You still haven’t seen _everyone_ you want to see.”

“What? That’s—”

“I told him you were back.”

All of Akira’s breath leaves him in a rush. “You...you talk to him?”

Ann nods, sympathy shining in her eyes. “He’s back in Tokyo. He—” she cuts off, lips pressing together. “I’ll let him tell you what he’s been up to.”

Akira’s heart drops. “I don’t think he’ll want to see me.”

“That’s okay.” Ann hitches her smile back up. “You’re pretty enough that you don’t _have_ to think.”

“What—”

“Stay warm tonight, Akira.” With a last pat on the arm, Ann whirls around and marches off into the cool night, bustling quickly down the street.

For a beat, Akira lingers in the doorway, gazing blankly at the deserted sidewalk in front of the café. Then the night air breaks through his stupor and he ducks back inside, shivering in his shortsleeves.

He’s been in town a few days already, and Sojiro is graciously letting him bunk in his old loft. He acted like he didn’t care either way but it was impossible for Akira to miss the new bed sitting in the corner of the attic. Why would the café’s storage space need a bed? Akira didn’t ask but just the sight of the sturdy frame and new, larger mattress made him feel more at home than he did his entire senior year.

Despite his best efforts, Ann’s words won’t leave his head as he finishes putting the café in order. She said he was in town, so unless she was telling some kind of disgusting joke, that meant he’s alive, at least.

It’s not that Akira thought Goro Akechi was dead; he got regular reports through Takemi of his recovery at the suburban hospital they moved him to, so he knew that Akechi survived his extensive treatment process, but the last he heard, Akechi had disappeared from the hospital after discharging himself before he technically should have been allowed to and no one was sure where he went.

Trying not to feel stung that Akechi wouldn’t let him know he hadn’t been kidnapped or arrested, Akira attempted to let the matter rest while he finished high school. In all likelihood, Akechi had gone off the radar of his own free will. Shido was firmly behind bars, and his inner circle had either fled or been arrested themselves. Akira himself hadn’t been harassed in any way after the trial and if he, the most public witness to Shido’s misdeeds, had been spared, Akechi was probably safe.

Despite his rationalizations, however, Akira couldn’t help the worry that simmered at the bottom of his gut all year. Ann’s confirmation should come as a relief, but instead of abating, the worry surges upward, coiling thorny fingers around his lungs and morphing into something painful. Ugly.

Sharing a city with Goro Akechi. What is Akira supposed to do with himself now that he knows?

He doesn’t realize he’s grinding his teeth until the ache in his temples forces him to relax his jaw and he sighs, slumping against the bar. It’s embarrassing, honestly, how nothing but the mere mention of the former Detective Prince can send him instantly spiralling. If Akechi was here, he’d be disgusted. Or would he be pleased to have wormed under Akira’s skin so thoroughly?

Placing a dust cover over the last of the coffee presses, Akira rounds the counter, deciding it’s time for bed.

He reaches for the light switch, but movement in his periphery snags his attention and he turns to see a figure standing at the door. The porch is dark, and the interior of Leblanc is dim, so Akira can barely make out the shape of a person through the window, but the outline of a head and shoulders is unmistakable.

Perhaps Ann figured it was too late to go back on her own and turned around, Akira wonders, directing his steps toward the front. He shouldn’t have let her go, honestly, but he was too thrown by her parting words to think to stop her.

Flipping the lock, Akira seizes the door handle and swings it open. “I guess that sleepover couldn’t—” Startled brown eyes meet his and the words die in Akira’s throat.

Goro Akechi lives in Akira’s memory as a sharp, furious, breathtakingly beautiful boy—frequently wreathed in flames, occasionally glaring coldly down the steel of a gun, and rarely, on bad days, spitting blood from between bared teeth as he slams the button for the emergency watertight bulkhead, but always, always with flashing crimson eyes and glowing honey gold hair and so beautiful it makes Akira ache.

And nothing has changed.

A spike of breathless longing drills directly through Akira’s chest as Akechi holds his gaze across the threshold. Instantly, a million words crowd his tongue, relief and indignation and disbelief swirling together as his mouth falls open, but what tumbles out is:

“Couldn’t stay away, huh?”

Cold irritation flashes familiarly across Akechi’s expression and he spins on his heel without a sound.

“Wait—” Panicked, Akira lurches forward, snagging the back of Akechi’s dark, cable knit sweater, stopping him in his tracks. “I’m sorry, don’t go.”

“I knew this was a stupid idea—” Akechi mutters under his breath. “I have no idea what came over me—”

“No, please, I’m—” Akira releases Akechi’s sweater and relief swoops through him when Akechi doesn’t instantly stride off into the night. He doesn’t turn around, but he doesn’t punch Akira either, so that’s encouraging. “I’m...glad to see you,” Akira admits.

“Don’t lie.”

“It’s not a lie.”

Haltingly, Akechi looks back over his shoulder, eyes flashing in the porchlight. “Then you’re an idiot.”

A smile twists the corner of Akira’s mouth. “Yeah. I guess so.”

A silent second pulses between them, creeping down Akira’s spine. He clears his throat. “Come inside.”

Akechi’s brows pinch down. “I shouldn’t.”

“I want you to.”

“That’s why I shouldn’t.”

“Akechi—” Akira raises his hand again, the urge to grab Akechi and drag him inside twitching through his fingers, but he fights it back, clenching his fist as he scans Akechi’s rigid body language. “I...I’d really like to talk to you.”

Radiating wariness, Akechi angles his body slightly in Akira’s direction. “What could we have to talk about?”

Akira stares at him. “Are you serious?”

Akechi purses his lips. “Fine, let me rephrase—what could we have to gain by talking to each other?”

The old, familiar, Akechi-specific exasperation rears its head and Akira bites back a sigh. “I want to talk to you. Isn’t that enough?”

Akechi hesitates, brows furrowing, and Akira crosses his arms.

“What was the plan tonight?” he asks belligerently. “You knew I was here, so you showed up to—what? Stand outside and then leave without saying anything?”

“What I do is none of your business,” Akechi snaps, rounding on Akira. “I’m free to stand outside of any café in Tokyo if I want to.”

Despite himself, Akira can’t help but bask in the full force of Akechi’s glare. “Come inside.”

Akechi’s lips press into a thin line and Akira can almost feel him gritting his teeth, posture tight and nettled. After a beat of thundering silence, he breathes in sharply through his nose. “Fine.”

Something warm banks low in Akira’s stomach. He steps aside and gestures through the still-open door, resisting the urge to bow sarcastically. Akechi holds his gaze sideways as he steps into the dim shop and Akira closes the door quickly behind them, blocking the light and escape of the street.

Akechi paces stiffly into the room, glancing around, and Akira watches hawkishly as he takes in the half-lit lamps, homey wood-paneled bar, and shelves lined with jars of coffee beans.

“This place hasn’t changed,” Akechi observes blandly, back to Akira.

“So you haven’t been back to your favorite coffee spot in over a year?” Akira pries.

Spine tense, Akechi shoots Akira a flinty look over his shoulder. “How long do you think I’ve been in the city?”

“I don’t know.” Akira hooks his foot around the leg of a bar stool and spins it before perching on the edge, leveling Akechi with a steely look of his own. “I don’t know anything about what you’ve been doing.”

“Yet you don’t seem surprised to see me.”

“Ann told me you were here.”

Akechi sighs. “Of course she did.”

“How long have you been back?”

Soft footsteps tap on the tile as Akechi crosses to a booth and sinks down on the bench with an almost imperceptible wince. “About a month.”

Akira scans Akechi’s figure, waiting, but Akechi doesn’t continue, staring blankly down at the tabletop. “And before that?” he prompts.

“Is this really what you want to do?” Akechi asks, looking up. “Catch up?”

“Yes.” Akira lifts an eyebrow. “What else would I invite you in here for?”

“Don’t play the fool.”

“But I’m so good at it.”

Blowing out an irritated huff, Akechi links his gloved hands on the table in front of him. “If you truly must know, I’ve been at a discreet rehabilitation facility for the better part of the past year.”

“Rehab—” Akira rolls the word on his tongue, letting the image land.

“Yes.” Akechi smiles blandly. “Surely you must have noticed me walking upright under my own power.”

A big change indeed, from the last time they saw each other, but Akira never had any doubt that, if Akechi managed to stay out of danger, he’d chase recovery with unparalleled determination. “Last I heard, you checked yourself out of the hospital. No one knew where you went.”

Akechi nods. “I appreciate you having me transferred out of the city, but I knew that my father’s associates would be desperate to find me. I thought it best to disappear for a little while, but I wasn’t exactly in a condition to look after myself.”

 _I would have looked after you_. Akira banishes the thought with a mental shake. “And this facility—”

“More of a shelter, really. For battered women. So they know how to hide people.” Akechi shifts his weight. “When my mother was alive, we visited occasionally. I got in contact with some of her former caretakers, and, fortunately, they were willing to help me.”

Retroactive relief strums through Akira and that tense, shivery ball of anxiety he’s been carrying since last year relaxes. “That’s...that’s good,” he exhales.

Akechi flashes him a guarded look. “I was able to continue treatment and receive physical therapy once I was well enough without worrying about being found.”

Any response Akira might have given gets caught in his throat as it closes up. He nods, swallowing thickly.

“But things have been quiet enough that I decided to come back and start making arrangements to continue my life.” Akechi drums his fingers on the table. “I was able to pull some strings and graduate, so I didn’t have to return to high school, thankfully, and the police were surprisingly eager to have me back in my old position. I should begin taking cases next month, though I’m not done with my physical therapy, so it will be mostly deskwork. And the media, of course—” he cuts off, regarding Akira with a flicker of alarm in his eyes. “Are you crying?”

“What?” Akira rasps, quickly raising a hand to his face. His fingertips come away wet. “No, I—why—” He blinks hard, eyes burning, and ducks his head. “Sorry, I just—”

“Nothing I’ve said is worth all of that,” Akechi says briskly.

“It’s not—” Akira’s throat seals shut again against the sudden emotion crashing through him and he pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to stem the tears leaking through his closed eyelids.

A rustle of fabric reaches his ears, like someone standing up. “If this is upsetting you so much, it would be best for me to go—”

“No!” Akira jerks his head up. “Please—”

Akechi pauses just outside the booth, and meets his eyes like an animal caught in headlights. “Akira—”

“I’m not upset, I’m not—” Yielding to the gravity knotted in his chest, Akira leans forward, reaching out to bridge the space between them, and latches trembling fingers onto the cuff of Akechi’s sleeve. Akechi tracks the motion, frozen in place, jaw tight. “I’m really—I’m relieved,” Akira manages, searching Akechi’s strained expression. “After you discharged yourself, I didn’t—no one knew where you were. I thought about trying to find you— _so_ many times, but after everything—” he bites his bottom lip. “I was scared—”

“Stop.” Akechi lowers his head, letting his hair swing forward to block his eyes. “Akira, don’t—”

“I was scared that if I found you—”

“Akira—”

“—and you didn’t want to see me—”

“ _Stop—_ ”

“I wouldn’t—” Akira huffs out a bitter laugh, tightening his grip on Akechi’s sleeve, “—be able to handle it.”

Akechi doesn’t react, face hidden, spine rigid, but when Akira tugs, he sways forward, allowing himself to be pulled a step closer.

“I hated myself for being so cowardly,” Akira mutters. “When I thought that you might be in trouble—I could barely stand it—but I still—” He pulls again, drawing Akechi into him until he’s standing between Akira’s spread legs and Akira has to tilt his head up to address him. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you all year,” he whispers, eyes glued to the tense, bloodless line of Akechi’s lips. “And hearing that you’ve been safe and healthy—I’m just—” Shaking faintly, Akira raises his free arm, alert for any sign of rejection, and brushes Akechi’s hair aside, tucking it behind his ear. “I’m so relieved.”

The action unveils Akechi’s staggered expression to the dim honey glow of the café. “Akira, you shouldn’t do this,” he whispers.

“Do what?”

“It’s not a good idea.”

Akira cups his hand against Akechi’s cheek. “What am I doing, Akechi?”

“Don’t—” Akechi finally turns savage eyes on Akira, snarling in his face, “—play with me—”

“Akechi—”

“What is the point of this?” Akechi’s skin is warm to the touch, glowing with a furious blush, and he doesn’t move away from Akira’s touch despite the snap of his words. “What do you want?”

“I—”

“And don’t give me that bullshit about _catching up_ —” Akechi hisses. “People like us don’t _catch up_ —”

“What I want—” Akira furrows his brows, struggling to hold Akechi’s stare as sharp crimson flays him open, leaving him tender and bleeding, like last time, like always— “I—I want—”

“ _What_?”

Akira’s strangled breath whistles in through his teeth, freezing in his lungs. “I want to know why you came here tonight.”

Akechi blinks, lips parting.

Spreading his fingers to span Akechi’s jaw, Akira searches his face. “You heard I was back—,” he mutters, watching as each word peels a layer of injured fury away from Akechi’s glittering gaze, “—and you came here.”

The muscles under Akira’s palm twitch as Akechi grits his teeth. “I—”

“Why?”

A beat of silence holds its breath between them.

Then Akechi opens his mouth. “You.”

Akira surges to his feet, heart racing, but Akechi is pushing away from him, drawing out of his grasp, breaking Akira’s gaze.

“But I shouldn’t have come—” and his footsteps crash like thunder on the tile, pacing away from Akira, toward the door.

Akira can only stand rooted to the spot, staring blankly at the place Akechi isn’t, unable to stop the distance growing between them. Like last time. Like always. Each inch of separation tears something inside him, retreating strides ringing in his head.

Until they stop. And a furious voice takes their place: “ _Damn_ it—”

Renewed footsteps pound sharply toward him and Akira turns, heart leaping, arms spread, just in time to catch Akechi against him in a crushing embrace. He staggers with the sudden weight, dizzy as gloved hands seize him by the hair and drag him into a fierce, biting kiss.

Moaning helplessly, Akira parts his lips and Akechi presses demandingly, all wet heat and clacking teeth, each eager motion striking like a match in Akira’s chest. Winding his arms around Akechi’s waist, Akira finds his footing and pushes back, sliding their tongues together. It’s unpracticed and clumsy and consuming, searing all of Akira’s thoughts away beyond the solid warmth of Akechi pressed to his front, the clutching fingers in his hair, the gasps breathed into his own mouth, and Akira never wants it to end.

So when Akechi breaks the kiss, tipping his head back to drag in a reedy inhale, a whine scratches out of Akira’s throat. His seeking lips land on Akechi’s neck, mouthing along the smooth, pale sweep of skin, drinking in the frenzied thum of Akechi’s pulse.

“Don’t leave,” he begs against Akechi’s jugular. “Please—don’t go—”

Akechi’s fingers twist tighter in his hair, one hand dropping to fist in the back of his shirt. “I won’t,” he promises breathlessly.

“Stay here—” Akira runs his hands restlessly along Akechi’s spine. “—stay with me—”

“Akira—” Akechi tilts his head back down, lips brushing against Akira’s, “—I’m here—I’m not leaving—”

Akira presses forward, catching Akechi’s words in his mouth and he can almost _taste_ them— _I’m here_ —made impossibly sweet by the lingering hints of tea and nighttime air on Akechi’s tongue. This kiss is gentler, insistent and simmering, and Akechi lets Akira lead, relaxing into the slow contact and sinking into Akira’s arms.

Goro Akechi surrendering himself to Akira’s affection. It’s enough to make his legs weak.

Without breaking the kiss, Akira maneuvers them around and backs blindly into the bench Akechi was sitting at. When the back of his leg hits the arm of the booth, he grabs for the edge of the table and eases down, pulling Akechi with him. Akechi goes willingly, fisting his hands in Akira’s collar and climbing over him as soon as Akira’s back meets leather. Moaning shamelessly as Akechi’s weight bears him down into the seat, Akira slots one thigh between Akechi’s and Akechi jerks against him with a hiss.

“Really?” He lets his own leg fall between Akira’s, pressing deliberately against Akira’s crotch. “You wanna do this here?”

“No more waiting—” Akira grabs a handful of Akechi’s hair and drags him into another bruising kiss, slipping his other hand down to palm Akechi’s ass, any shame or hesitance lost in the wanton moan that passes from Akechi’s mouth into his own.

He’s already half-hard in his jeans and when Akechi shifts sinuously against him, the delicious pressure explodes little stars behind his eyes. Retaliating with a deliberate nudge of his thigh, Akira soaks in Akechi’s answering shudder and tugs Akechi’s head to the side, nosing at his ear.

“Need you—” he breathes into the burning pink shell, “—missed you—”

“Hopeless,” Akechi mutters and grinds his hips, fingers still curled in the fabric of Akira’s shirt.

The hard ridge of Akechi’s erection against Akira’s thigh sends scorching needles up his spine, and he jerks Akechi more firmly against himself, fitting their groins together. Akechi groans into the leather of the bench and Akira can’t resist another hard rut upwards.

“You missed me too—” Akira gentles his grip on Akechi’s hair, cupping the back of his head and pressing his cheek to Akechi’s temple even as he rolls his hips again, “—you came back to me—”

“Never said—I missed you—”

“You don’t have to say it—” Akira stutters into an uneven rhythm, rutting against Akechi in short, unpracticed thrusts, chasing the heat surging rapidly through him, breathing in the clean, floral scent of Akechi’s hair. “You don’t have to say—anything, Akechi—”

“Akira—” Akechi pants, squirming.

Groaning, Akira tugs Akechi’s head around to crash their lips together again, pressing his thigh into every abortive twitch of Akechi’s hips, and Akechi licks past his teeth instantly, invading his mouth. Akira tightens his grip on Akechi’s ass, kneading at the firm muscle and Akechi almost whimpers, shoving his crotch against the hard bulge of Akira’s cock. Sparks jumping through his nerves from the savage friction, Akira scratches his nails over Akechi’s scalp, guiding his head to the side to deepen the kiss.

Another rough grind has Akechi’s breath hitching and he disengages from Akira’s mouth to tip his head up and gasp, leaving Akira free to nip at the underside of his jaw, tasting the smooth, blushing skin, before dragging his teeth lightly down Akechi’s chin.

“Fuck—” Akechi swears vehemently, swaying with the ceaseless rocking of Akira beneath him, “— _fuck_ , Akira, I’m—” He bows his head again, resting their brows together, his hair falling around them in a warm, sweet-smelling curtain. “I’m—close, oh _god_ —”

The pressure building in Akira’s gut agrees, shamefully close to the edge already, and Akira slides their clothed erections together mercilessly, hissing in a breath through his teeth. “Me too—Akechi—”

Akechi presses his lips together to muffle a whine, grinding down with a quick, filthy jerk of his hips, and Akira drops his hand from Akechi’s hair, winding his arm around Akechi’s back instead to keep their bodies sealed together. He’s boiling in his clothes, heat trapped and building under Akechi’s solid, shaking weight, but he can’t pause, can’t even think past the pleasure skittering through him with each bump and rut. Crooking his knee, he uses his grip on Akechi’s ass to pin his lower body in place, bucking up into the hard, searing pressure with single-minded determination.

He falls apart embarrassingly quickly, a rough jab at just the right angle sending white-hot electricity pulsing up from his groin, and he lets out a cracked moan into the scant space between their mouths.

On top of him, Akechi goes rigid, before shuddering in his arms, jaw dropping open with a surprised-sounding whimper. Akira tightens his grip, crushing Akechi against him as he shivers, riding the tingling waves of pleasure ebbing through his own body.

A taut silence hangs between them, suspended and quivering, while Akira’s blissed-out brain struggles to memorize the exact sensation of Akechi’s weight, Akechi’s ragged breathing hitting his lips, Akechi’s hair tickling his cheeks—

Until Akechi releases a strangled groan and sags on top of him, dropping his head to the side and thumping it against the bench seat. “I can’t believe I just let that happen,” he mumbles into the leather.

Akira swallows hard, settling his tingling arms firmly around Goro’s waist, half-afraid he’ll push away and walk out of the café forever. “Sorry.”

One of Akechi’s hands loosens from his collar and inches up to pinch his ear. “Don’t apologize.”

“No, I—” Turning his head, Akira blinks at the deep whiskey pools of Goro’s half-lidded eyes. “I am sorry. This isn’t how I wanted... _this_ to happen, it’s just—” he taps their noses together, “—you make me forget to be cool.”

For a beat, Akechi holds his gaze, too close to make out details, sharing his breath. “ _This_ doesn’t have to be over yet.”

Akira’s stomach flips like he just crested the peak of a rollercoaster. “Huh?” he says intelligently.

“You’re staying upstairs in that dingy loft, right?” Without waiting for an answer, Akechi extricates himself from Akira’s slackened grip and struggles out of the booth, wrinkling his nose as he finds his feet. Akira watches him adjust his black jeans, uncomprehending. “I’ll have to borrow some underwear,” Akechi tells him matter-of-factly before turning and starting toward the back of the café.

It takes Akira’s orgasm-addled brain until Akechi reaches the end of the bar to click the pieces into place and then he vaults upright, scrambling after Akechi as he smoothly mounts the staircase.

Akechi doesn’t bother with the lights, striding into the dim attic with soft footsteps, and the meager glow of the streetlights drips golden veins down his dark figure as he pauses and reaches for the hem of his sweater. “Undress completely,” he commands, tugging it up to reveal a gray undershirt.

Akira can only obey, head empty other than Akechi’s words and the soft shuffle of Akechi’s clothes leaving his body. Ripping his shirt over his head, Akira kicks his shoes and socks off before wrestling out of his pants. The sensation of cooling cum trapped between his underwear and stirring cock makes him grimace and he quickly strips the soiled garment, though the unpleasantness is tempered somewhat by the realization that Akechi is in a similar position.

By the time he’s totally bare and able to raise his eyes, Akechi is discarding the last of his clothes and running a bare hand through his hair, completely exposed to the faint gilded light sifting through the window. Miles of creamy skin glow porcelain in the half-shadows, and for a second, Akira can only stand there stupidly, transfixed by the torch of Akechi’s ruffled hair, the cutting glitter of Akechi’s eyes, the pretty, dusky pink of Akechi’s hardening cock—

“I assume you have lube?”

Akira blinks, the question filtering through the haze of want occupying his head. “Uh—yeah, let me—” Unbalanced, Akira hurries across the cluttered attic to dig in the bag he left open on his bed. The bottle of lubricant is strictly for personal use and he only brought it because he didn’t want to leave a single thing in his parents’ house. Now, he’s beyond grateful he did, heart pounding in his ears as his fingers close around the tube. When he turns back, Akechi is still standing in the middle of the room, one hand on his hip, dragging a slow scan up Akira’s nude form, and Akira feels goosebumps rise along his skin at the open hunger on Akechi’s face.

“Sit down.” Akechi points imperiously at the couch, the only surface free of bags and boxes, and Akira hastens to comply, sinking down on shaking legs.

He barely has time to lean back against the cushion before Akechi is looming over him, bracing his knees on either side of his lap, putting Akira at eye-level with—

The strange, otherworldly lighting of the loft had hidden it from Akira’s ravenous staring earlier, but now there’s no way to miss the round, discolored scar marring Goro’s slim chest, just to the left of his upper sternum, and Akira’s hand lifts before he can stop it, fingertips hovering just over the raised flesh.

“You can touch it,” Akechi says above him, settling his own hands on Akira’s shoulders. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. At least, not now.”

Instead of letting his fingers brush the scar, Akira drops his hand to curl warmly around Akechi's hip and lists forward to place a tender kiss against the gnarled skin, lips gentle over the healed bullet wound, and Akechi's breath hitches.

Akira never actually saw the gunshot wound a year ago. He saw Akechi stagger as the shot punched through him. He saw blood pooling against the metal floor of the yacht’s engine room. He saw bandages wrapped tightly around Akechi’s ghostly chest. But he never saw the hole carved through Akechi’s left lung, passing, according to the surgeons, millimeters from his heart.

Now, leaning back to take in the sight again, Akira can finally appreciate Takemi’s assertion that Akechi must be the luckiest person in existence.

 _“Any closer,”_ she said, staring in shock at Akechi’s chart. _“Any closer—even the tiniest angle—and he’d have been dead in minutes.”_

At the time, Akira struggled to see anything about the situation as _fortunate_ , but with Akechi’s solid weight settling on his thighs, warm and breathing and definitely alive, gratitude pangs through him, and he can’t resist ducking to place another kiss on Akechi’s chest. This time, he misses the scar intentionally to graze his lips over the steady beat thrumming behind Akechi’s ribs.

“The one on my back looks worse.” Sliding his hand down Akira’s arm, Akechi takes him by the wrist and pulls, directing Akira’s touch around until Akira is skimming his fingers up Akechi’s bare spine.

After a second of careful seeking, Akira’s fingertips brush an uneven patch of skin, and even without seeing it, he can tell it’s more gruesome than the one on the front, puckered and veiny. He flattens his palm over it.

“It might have healed like the other one, but I reopened it a few times,” Akechi admits quietly, stroking both hands up Akira’s biceps. “I’m a very bad patient.”

Akira smiles against Akechi’s sternum. “I bet.”

“But enough about that.” One of Akechi’s hands drops, and then Akira is sucking in a breath at the warm grip enclosing his hardening cock.

It’s the first time anyone other than himself has directly touched him like this and he swallows hard, forehead pressed to Akechi’s clavicle as heat washes through him.

Akechi strokes lightly along the length, a heavenly slide of soft skin, and Akira can’t stop the way his hips buck up.

“So sensitive,” Akechi purrs, brushing his thumb over Akira’s tip and dragging a thin whine out of Akira’s throat. “You’re a virgin, right?”

“Yes,” Akira rasps, lifting his head to meet Akechi’s blown-out eyes. “I’ve...never—”

“I’m shocked, honestly.” Akechi tightens his grip suddenly, squeezing the base, and Akira gasps, stomach muscles contracting. “You’re young, attractive—with people panting after you left and right. You never wanted to experiment?”

Shaking his head with effort, Akira leaves the bottle of lube on the bench and glues both hands to Akechi’s waist, staring up at him through the gloom. “Never—” he breathes. “There was never anyone but you—”

An unimpressed scowl wars with the blush staining Akechi’s cheeks. “Don’t tell me you were waiting for me.”

“I was.”

“You had no way of knowing I’d come back.”

“That didn’t matter.” Akira skates one hand up, over Akechi’s ribs, over his scar, over his shoulder, to cradle the back of Akechi’s head, guiding him down enough to brush their lips together. “As long as I remembered you—how could anyone else compare?”

Akechi’s mouth quirks against his. “Save your exaltations for the end. It’s not like I’ve ever done this either.”

A thrill races down Akira’s spine and he catches Akechi in a pointed, biting kiss. Akechi opens for it, and through the haze of Akechi’s tongue and teeth, Akira feels him adjust his grip to capture his own cock alongside Akira’s, pumping both lengths steadily. His other hand curls into Akira’s hair.

“Follow my lead,” he pants, tugging lightly.

Akira nods helplessly, blood boiling.

“Slick your fingers,” Akechi orders.

Disengaging from the kiss regretfully, Akira scrambles for the lube bottle, barely able to think beyond the smooth, addicting pleasure of Akechi’s hand on his cock. It takes some fumbling, which Akechi watches with flushed amusement, but Akira manages to get the lid off and squeeze a generous amount of gel into his right hand. Setting the bottle aside, he spreads the lube up his fingers, warming it and making sure his hand is slick.

“Good,” Akechi exhales. He licks his lips, eyes darting between Akira’s hand and the situation in their laps. “Okay—this will be easier if I—” He shifts, releasing their cocks, but before Akira can worry he’s changed his mind, he’s lowering himself onto the bench seat and leaning back, beckoning Akira closer. “Come on.”

Eagerly, Akira complies, kneeling between Akechi’s knees. The sofa isn’t very wide, and one of Akechi’s legs dangles off the edge, but he doesn’t seem to mind, wiggling slightly to get comfortable. His erection sits heavily against his stomach, blushing and dripping a few tiny pearls of precome. Below it, his balls are drawn up, ruddy and smooth, and under that—Akira’s mouth waters at the sight of Akechi’s tiny, rosy hole, completely exposed and waiting.

“Don’t just stare,” Akechi says sharply, lifting up on one elbow to snag Akira’s wrist. “Or I’ll change my mind and do it myself.”

Akira swallows, letting Akechi direct his hand between his cheeks. “Don’t let me hurt you.”

“You won’t.” Akechi bites his bottom lip as Akira brushes his fingertips against his entrance. “I’ve done this to myself. Just—one finger at a time.”

“Okay,” Akira agrees breathlessly, heart pounding. Between his own legs, his cock hangs, rigid and aching, but he pushes the discomfort aside, focusing on teasing the supple give of Akechi’s rim with one slick finger.

Breathing out in a slow, controlled stream, Akechi lays back against the seat, leaving Akira free to move on his own.

Slowly, Akira works his fingertip past the muscle’s initial resistance, slipping just inside and circling carefully. His eyes bounce between his hand and Akechi’s face, watching hawkishly as Akechi sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. “Is this okay?” Akira asks, pausing.

“I’ll tell you if you do something wrong.” Akechi grinds down impatiently. “Come on.”

Akira’s cock throbs in answering anticipation and he takes a steadying breath. “Okay.”

Putting a little more force behind it, Akira slips his finger farther into the searing clutch of Akechi’s body. The lube keeps the slide easy, and Akechi’s walls part for his touch, rippling in a way that makes Akira’s mouth go dry. Keeping an eye on Akechi’s reactions, Akira pumps his finger lightly in and out until he feels the slight resistance relax around the motion.

Running his other hand along Akechi’s thigh, he prods the tip of his middle finger against the slick ring of muscle. “I’m putting in another,” he says, voice strangled.

Akechi waves dismissively, but Akira doesn’t miss the blush creeping down his chest or the way his abdomen tenses as Akira slides the second finger inside.

Akira’s never done this, even to himself, and he gave up on porn pretty quickly after his arrest, unable to stomach the manhandling inherent to the medium, but he hasn’t been living under a rock. He knows he needs to loosen the muscles, warm them up, and he scissors his fingers with intention, eyes glued to the slowly widening circle of Akechi’s entrance. He also knows that—somewhere around here, there should be—

Akechi jerks against the seat, both hands flying up to grab the arm of the bench, and Akira raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah?” He prods that spot again, fingers crooked, and Akechi sucks in a breath. “Does that feel good?”

“Almost,” Akechi grits out, hips twitching.

“You can be honest.” Akira hooks his free hand under Akechi’s knee and pushes firmly, folding his leg nearly to his chest, spreading him wider as he pulls his fingers almost all the way out, dragging deliberately against Akechi’s sweet spot. “I definitely wanna hear it.”

“Don’t—don’t get cocky—” Akechi breaks off on a close-mouthed _mmm_ , dropping his head back as Akira works his ring finger in alongside the other two. His body tenses at the stretch and Akira pushes in slowly, mindfully, brow furrowed with concentration.

Once all three fingers are surrounded by Akechi’s silky walls, Akira breathes in slowly, flexing his grip on Akechi’s leg. “Okay?”

At this angle, he can only see the sharp rise of Akechi’s jaw, but his short nod is obvious, accompanied by a fluttery groan. Emboldened, Akira crooks his fingers again, and the hitched noise Akechi lets out shoots straight to his dick.

“Fuck—” Akira swears, bowing over Akechi’s chest as his fingers nudge deeper. His pulse is thundering in his veins, want coiling tightly in his core. The pressure around his fingers is addicting, slick and hot, constricting and relaxing with every abortive jerk of Akechi’s body, and Akira can’t resist thrusting in and out, setting a slow, experimental rhythm. “You’re amazing—”

“ _Ah—_ ” Akechi turns his head to the side, eyes screwed shut, and one of his hands pries loose to grab for Akira’s hair. His chest is heaving, leg muscles trembling in Akira’s grasp, and Akira releases his thigh in favor of leaning farther over him, bracing that hand on the seat over Akechi’s shoulder, pressing deep with the shift in weight. Akechi’s muscles ripple in response. “Oh, god— _hn_ —”

Both of Akechi’s legs draw in, tight on either side of Akira, and Akira dips down to graze his lips against Akechi’s sternum. Spreading his fingers with determination, Akira peppers a line of kisses across Akechi’s chest, licking eagerly over one hardened nipple.

Akechi squeaks, yanking at Akira’s hair, and Akira jerks back instantly. “Sorry—”

“No—no—” Akechi drags Akira face back to his chest, “—don’t stop—”

Stomach flipping, Akira latches on, flicking his tongue against the perky nub before sealing his lips around the whole tiny mound with a hungry moan. Akechi echoes him, twitching with each lick, fingers curling restlessly in Akira’s hair, and when Akira switches sides, his hand slides down Akira’s neck and claws viciously into Akira’s back. Another firm, wet thrust of Akira’s fingers has him whining, twisting sinuously under Akira, and Akira can feel his patience fraying at the edges.

Pulling off Akechi’s nipple, he strokes along Akechi’s walls and watches him shudder, raking his gaze down Akechi’s gasping frame. “Please, Akechi—” he begs breathlessly, “—can I—”

Blinking open dark, bleary eyes, Akechi lifts his head enough to peer down at Akira’s painfully rigid cock, standing at attention against his stomach, and nods haltingly. “Yeah—yes, you—hold on—”

Hands push at Akira’s shoulders and he moves back dutifully, slipping his fingers free. Visibly shaking, Akechi reclaims their earlier positions, straddling Akira’s lap as Akira leans back against the backrest. Akira’s too captivated by his pink cheeks and parted, glistening lips to follow Akechi’s movements exactly, but somehow he produces the bottle of lube and pours a small pool into his palm.

Akira can’t contain a hiss as Akechi’s slick hand closes around his aching cock, but Akechi doesn’t pause, pumping swiftly to distribute the oil, and Akira can only sink his teeth into his bottom lip, gripping Akechi’s thighs with white knuckles.

Swiping his thumb over Akira’s leaking slit, Akechi huffs out a strangled laugh, tossing Akira a haughty look that somehow isn’t dampened by his own state of indignance. “You’re surprisingly cute, attic trash.”

The familiar dig lights an ember of their old competitiveness somewhere inside the tangle of heat in Akira’s gut and he narrows his eyes, wrenching one hand loose in order to wrap his fingers around Akechi’s own straining length. He’s rewarded with a surprised whimper and a stilted jerk of Akechi’s hips. “I’ll never be as cute as you, Detective Akechi,” Akira coos, feeling up and down the velvety skin with gentle fingertips.

Biting back another pitchy noise, Akechi retaliates with a sharp squeeze around Akira’s shaft, drawing out a grunt. “What did I say about being cocky?”

“But you hate it when I’m meek.”

Akechi scowls, and Akira can’t resist craning up to place a kiss on his downturned mouth. After a second of token resistance, Akechi opens for him, and Akira slides their tongues together.

Detaching with a wet pop, Akechi lifts up on his knees and positions himself over Akira’s crotch, holding Akira’s cock steady underneath himself. Breathing out hard, he meets Akira’s eyes. “Ready?”

Caught in Akechi’s shining stare, Akira raises his clean hand and brushes through the hair at Akechi’s temple, tucking it behind his ear. “Yeah,” he exhales. “Yeah—fuck yes, Akechi, I—” The sheer disbelief and amazement choke the rest of his words in his throat and he can only swallow, cradling Akechi’s jaw.

Fortunately, Akechi knows him. Akechi knows him. His eyes flash and he lays his free hand on Akira’s shoulder, digging his nails in. “This is not going to last long,” he mutters, right before Akira feels his tip press against something slick and yielding.

Heat flashing through him, Akira grabs for Akechi’s hips, trying to help him lower himself, and when the first few inches slide inside, Akira’s vision swims, the novel stimulation bleeding over him in an inexorable wave.

Akechi pauses, chest expanding and deflating once, before he drops the rest of the way, landing mercilessly on Akira’s lap, and a ragged moan tears out of Akira’s throat. The pressure, the friction—it’s almost too much, clawing pleasure across every nerve in his body, and he can’t stop the way he bucks up. Akechi whimpers, squeezing his shoulder.

“Hold—hold on—”

“Sorry,” Akira groans. “Sorry—” With intense concentration, Akira holds himself frozen, trying to breathe past the deafening desire to fuck up into the wet heat surrounding him. He can feel Akechi rippling around his cock, adjusting to the stretch, and he thinks he understands what it’s like to go insane.

After a simmering beat, Akechi licks his lips, a maddening flash of pink tongue, and squeezes Akira’s shoulders. “I’m going to move.”

Akira can only nod, overcome.

Tortuously, Akechi lifts himself up, and Akira has to lean his head back against the cushion, eyes screwed shut against the electric pleasure sparking from the wet drag of Akechi’s rim against each inch of his length.

“ _Fuck_ —” Akechi echoes his thoughts exactly, faltering as Akira’s tip hooks just slightly inside of him. “ _Hah_ —you’re really—” he drops about halfway, shifting to get his bearings, “—not bad—”

Akira almost laughs, hands flexing spasmodically on Akechi’s waist, but then Akechi is filling himself to the hilt again, grinding down on Akira’s lap, and their moans combine throatily in the space between them.

Akira curls his toes against the hardwood, trying to drag his focus away from the sudden, gripping pleasure, narrowing his perception to the damp press of his hands to Akechi’s bare skin, the hot rustle of Akechi’s heavy breathing through his hair, and he tips his head back, eyelids fluttering, to bump Akechi’s open mouth with his own. Akechi returns the kiss clumsily, working himself back up on shaking thighs, then back down, slowly gaining stability and confidence as the overwhelming intensity of rigid flesh against his velvety, clinging walls settles somewhat.

A little more collected, Akira lets himself sink into the searing friction, panting harshly with each bright zing of heat through his core. Akechi’s lips brush his with each rock, soft caramel hair tickling the sides of his face and blocking out everything that isn’t Akechi moving over him, and as Akechi picks up the pace, one of his hands travels up Akira’s neck to fist in Akira’s curls.

On the next drop, Akira thrusts up, meeting Akechi’s ass with a muffled slap, and a startled sound tumbles from Akechi’s mouth, followed by a full-body shiver.

“Yeah?” Akira tilts his hips up, grinding with intention, and Akechi’s spine bows, his forehead landing on Akira’s crown as he groans. Repeating the action, Akira skates his hands around to dig his fingers into the firm muscles of Akechi’s ass, kneading as he pulls partially out. “Need my help?”

“Don’t get—full of yourself—” Akechi breaks off on a shriek as Akira drags him back down onto his cock, rolling up to sheath himself completely inside. The cry melts into a wounded mewl and Akira licks over his parted lips, setting a rough pace, fucking up into Akechi’s shuddering body.

Each time they slam together, Akechi’s fingers tighten, pulling at Akira’s hair, nails cutting into the skin of Akira’s shoulders, little starbursts of pain in the rushing torrent of pleasure coursing through him. Akira can only grit his teeth, breaths growing more erratic and fogging the space between them as the tension in his gut tightens, chasing him even faster.

“Oh—fuck, _oh_ —” A stream of breathless curses and incoherent muttering falls from Akechi’s mouth, until he throws his head back on a long, low moan, circling his hips with an unpracticed desperation. His cock, trapped between them, drools precum in little spurts against Akira’s abdomen. The long, pale column of his neck stretches in front of Akira, beckoning, and all Akira can do is sway forward and lick a wet stripe along one slender tendon, yanking Akechi ruthlessly onto his cock. Akechi whimpers, spasming around him.

Snagging the porcelain flesh between his teeth, Akira sucks hard, picturing blood rising to the surface and stamping a signature on Akechi’s body. So that everyone will know—so that when he looks in the mirror, Akechi will remember—

“ _Ah_ —!” Akechi jolts as Akira’s teeth pinch a little too sharply, and Akira releases his neck in favor of burying his face in the smooth, intoxicating expanse of Akechi’s shoulder. He can feel Akechi rutting his erection against the flat of his stomach with each bounce, and somewhere in his addled brain, he recognizes that they’re nearing the end.

Heat twists violently inside of him, spearing through his muscles, and he swallows dryly, adjusting his grip back to Akechi’s waist to help him rock in his lap. “Akechi—” he gasps into Akechi’s clavicle, “—close—I’m...Akechi, I’m—”

“Yeah—” Akechi’s fingers scratch down Akira’s shoulders, digging into his biceps, and Akira feels a burning cheek come to rest against his sweaty hair. “Me—too—” Around his cock, Akechi is constricting, tightening more around each shallow thrust and drawing a helpless whine out of Akira’s throat. “ _Ah—_ Akira!”

Akira’s head is swimming, Akechi’s voice filling his ears, Akechi’s taste filling his mouth, Akechi’s skin scorching against his palms, and he pulls Akechi all the way down and holds him there. A rasping sob punches out of Akechi’s chest and Akira rolls his hips with as much control as he can summon to his trembling muscles.

“Come on, Akechi—” he pants, freeing one hand to reach between them, curling his fingers around Akechi’s neglected cock. It jerks in his grip and Akechi shivers, nails piercing into Akira’s arms. “Fuck—you’re amazing, you’re—” Akira strokes rapidly up and down the searing length, letting the remnants of the lube on his hand and Akechi’s own leaking precum slick the way.

Akechi hiccups unevenly, squirming in Akira’s lap, muscles taut.

“I—I—” A dizzying surge of emotion drags Akira’s head up and he meets Akechi’s watering eyes through the gloom, not pausing his movements. “I missed you—” he whispers raggedly, again, because Akechi has to know, has to understand that he took a piece of Akira with him when he disappeared, and now that he’s here, in Akira’s arms, everything is slotting back into place, and Akira is so _relieved_ — “I missed you. Akechi, I missed you—”

Words can’t contain the overflow of consuming desire welling up from the place in Akira’s chest where Akechi fits so perfectly, but the blazing heat in Akechi’s gaze tells Akira that he knows. Because he knows Akira. And it’s that knowing that pours into Akira as Akechi sways forward and seals their mouths together.

Akira drinks it in, rutting furiously into the tightening clutch of Akechi’s body, twisting his hand around Akechi’s cock, until Akechi is whimpering into his mouth. Releasing Akechi’s waist, Akira buries his other hand in Akechi’s hair, guiding his head to the side and keeping them connected even as the kiss loses rhythm, dissolving into an exchange of fevered panting and muffled noises. A stilted cry vibrates into Akira’s mouth as Akechi goes rigid on top of him, bearing down almost painfully. Akira aims one final thrust up into Akechi’s ass and holds there, spearing him open while he shakes apart.

Hot ropes of cum shoot over Akira’s hand, splattering on his sweat-slick stomach, and Akechi nearly severs Akira’s tongue as he snaps his teeth together around a ruined moan. Akira strokes him through it, pressing his lips to the side of Akechi’s mouth.

When Akechi sucks in a tattered breath, rattling with aftershocks, Akira regretfully relinquishes his cock and grabs Akechi’s ass with both hands to guide him up enough to slip his own length out of Akechi’s twitching hole. Akechi’s weight lands on his thighs and he slumps forward to lean against Akira’s shoulder as Akira closes his fist around his aching erection, hissing at the pressure. It only takes a few pumps, stimulated nearly to the point of incoherency, for Akira to feel the warning pressure in his core for the second time that night, and he turns his face into Akechi’s neck as blinding pleasure spirals through his whole body.

Keening out a single, low note, Akira rides the sparking wave, hips jerking, release painting hot stripes up Akechi’s abdomen and joining the cum already dripping down Akira’s hand. The tension in his gut unspools rapidly, draining along with his thoughts, leaving him with nothing but Akechi leaning against him, breathing hard into the dip of his collarbone.

Heart throbbing in his ears, Akira wraps one tingling arm around Akechi’s back and lets the last embers of his orgasm fuse into the heat between them.

When awareness starts to filter back in, and Akechi stirs weakly against him, Akira tightens his grip with a sluggish spike of panic.

“Don’t go,” he begs. Soaked in sweat and cum, he presses his face into Akechi’s hair and prays: “Stay with me.”

Akechi freezes, a marble statue in his arms, even the warm breeze of his breath gone still. “I...I shouldn’t.”

“I want you to.”

“That’s _why_ I shouldn’t. Akira—”

“Akechi.” Fitting his clean hand under Akechi’s jaw, Akira lifts Akechi’s head, forcing their gazes to lock. Akechi’s expression is shuttered, carefully blank. “Stay with me.”

Akechi presses his lips into a thin line. “It’s late. I can’t go anywhere tonight, so—”

“No.” Akira strokes his thumb over Akechi’s cheek. “ _Stay_ with me.”

On his arms, Akechi’s hands twitch and his eyes dart away.

“I know you feel the same,” Akira whispers.

“Because you know everything,” Akechi snipes back.

Akira searches his face, but there’s no rejection peeking through the cracks in his mask. There’s fear in the pinch of his brows and uncertainty in the shimmer of his eyes, but no rejection. No hatred. “I know you.”

Akechi bites his lip.

“I want to be with you.”

“You can’t make those kinds of decisions so suddenly.”

“I’ve wanted this for almost two years now,” Akira insists. “I want you—you’re the only thing I—that I’ve ever wanted like this—no one else—”

Akechi claps Akira’s face between his palms, stalling his words. “You are a child,” he hisses, eyes boring straight through Akira. “You want me the way you want to win a game to prove you’re better than your friends. And now that you’ve won, you’ll move on.”

Akira frowns. “Now who knows everything?”

“It’s best if you accept your victory and let me go.”

“And what about you?” Akira demands, his dirty hand curving around the dense muscle of Akechi’s thigh. “You want me.”

“Of course I do,” Akechi snarls. “I _lost_.”

“Stop,” Akira snaps, and Akechi actually blinks down at him, startled. “Don’t talk like that. Don’t _think_ like that—” he slips his hand around to the back of Akechi’s neck and pulls him forward until their foreheads tap together. “ _This_ isn’t a game, Akechi. You’re not a game. You’ve always been the only person I never felt like I had to bargain with for acceptance. This past year without you has been awful, and when I saw you tonight—” Akira sucks in a labored breath, eyes burning, “—I felt right for the first time in—so long—”

“Akira—”

“Don’t leave again—” Whatever else Akira was going to say to persuade Akechi out of his destructive thinking dissolves in the crash of longing that courses through him, “—please, don’t go—stay with me—”

“How can—how can you still want me—”

“I can’t not want you,” Akira gasps. “Nothing you can do will make me not want you.”

A frustrated growl seeps through Akechi’s bared teeth. “Akira, I am trying to give you an out! All of this...ardent pining is sweet, but it’s no way to live—you deserve a life away from me and what I do to you—”

“But I don’t want that life!” Akira tilts his head enough to speak the words against Akechi’s lips. “You’re the only life I want—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—”

“Akechi—” Akira’s plea dies in Akechi’s mouth as Akechi jerks him into a deep, biting kiss. He accepts it eagerly, open and pliant for Akechi’s vicious tongue, and when Akechi pulls back after a beat, he follows blindly, swaying forward until Akechi’s firm grip on his face stops him.

“Fine,” Akechi spits, breathing hard. “If you’re so desperate for this life, then take it! Take everything—but don’t complain later.”

Akira blinks dumbly, head reeling. “Really?”

Akechi’s eyebrow twitches and he drops his hands to rest in a loose ring around Akira’s throat. “Even if you regret it, I’m not going to let you back out.”

“Akechi—” A wide grin breaks across Akira’s face, heart singing joyfully in his chest, and all he can do is press forward to catch Akechi’s mouth again.

Akechi yields to the kiss, and Akira doesn’t miss his soft, aching sigh, or the gentle stroke of fingertips over the nape of his neck.

Goro Akechi offering him a life. It’s enough to make Akira believe in miracles.

* * *

The soft, steady drip of coffee tapers off, drawing Akira out of his memories as he registers the sleepy silence.

Shaking off the last wisps of a dark, cluttered attic, promises spat out like warnings, and sticky, feverish skin, Akira collects both full mugs and makes his way to the stairs. He always gets nostalgic around this time of year.

Sometimes, that night four years ago feels ancient. They really were impossibly young, careening desperately into each other; but after separating like an un-cauterized amputation the year prior, what else were they supposed to do? No matter how much he’s grown since then, if faced with the same situation, Akira would make the same choices with no hesitation. Whether or not they were ready for each other, they were ready to start trying.

And when Akira nudges his apartment door open with one bare foot, the result of all of that stumbling and strife greets him in the form of his dozing boyfriend curled up in the spot he vacated a few minutes ago.

Early morning sunlight slants through the windows and falls across the sheets in thick gold beams as Akira pads quietly across the room. Setting the mugs on the nightstand, Akira lowers himself onto the side of the bed, chest glowing with a warmth completely independent of the sunrise.

“Goro,” he purrs, leaning over to press his mouth against the rise of Goro’s shoulder. “Wake up, honey.”

Goro mutters something unintelligible and squeezes his eyes shut tighter, turning his face into the pillow.

“Come on.” Akira tugs the collar of Goro’s loose sleep shirt down enough to get his lips on his boyfriend’s bare skin. “We have brunch with Ann soon, remember?” He trails a line of fluttery kisses up the sweeping slope of Goro’s neck until he’s nuzzling under Goro’s jaw.

Letting out a disgruntled hum, Goro pinches his shoulder up, and Akira backs off, chuckling, in favor of carding his fingers through Goro’s tousled hair. The sunlight glitters off the blonde hints tracing throughout the chocolate brown, turning Goro’s whole head into a gleaming lantern that Akira’s hands seek like enraptured moths.

After a beat of drowsy sighing, Goro cracks his eyes open, treating Akira to that familiar, stomach-swooping whiskey gaze.

“Good morning,” Akira smiles.

“Morning,” Goro mumbles, lifting one hand to rub over his face. Inhaling deeply, he unravels his body and reaches over his head in a languid stretch. Akira watches affectionately, smile widening as Goro squints adorably at the brightness of the room. “Coffee?”

“Here.” Akira retrieves the mugs and offers one to Goro as Goro sluggishly pushes himself upright.

“Hm.” Goro folds both hands around the cup and bows over it, knees drawn up under the blankets. He tips his face into the steam, chest expanding as he breathes in the rich scent of his favorite blend.

Raising his own mug to take a careful sip, Akira shifts slightly up the bed and instantly feels Goro sink his weight against his side, his head landing on Akira’s shoulder. Reveling in the warm press of his sleepy boyfriend, Akira lets his own cheek settle in Goro’s hair, and, for a fleeting, dizzying second, he can hardly believe he’s really here. Sitting on his bed, drinking morning coffee with his cranky night owl boyfriend, considering the normal, domestic schedule extending in front of him. The perfection of it is absurd, almost manufactured.

Then Goro flinches against him with a hiss, dragging Akira back to earth.

“What?” he asks, leaning back enough to see Goro pressing his fingers to his lips.

“It’s fucking hot,” Goro curses, holding the mug away from himself.

“I just made it,” Akira points out, trying not to smirk.

Goro scowls behind his fingers.

“Here—” Akira plants his free hand on Goro’s far side and brushes their noses together. “I’ll kiss it better.”

“Did I ask for your help?” But Goro still lowers his hand and submits to Akira’s gentle mouth, opening up when Akira prompts him.

Akira smiles deliriously into the kiss.

Goro Akechi burning his tongue on Akira’s handmade coffee first thing in the morning. It’s everything Akira’s ever wanted.

**Author's Note:**

> i am constantly awed and humbled by the support for this series and all of my works. thank you all so much!
> 
> come see me on [tumblr](https://mistresseast.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/MistressEast)! i'm always happy to answer questions or just chat!


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